For fans of New York Times bestselling authors Samantha Young, Sylvia Day, and E. L. James comes the stunning, erotically charged story about a woman who's not looking for love and the tempting billionaire who left her breathless . . . As a gifted opera singer, Allegra Orsini's only obsession is music-until she meets him. A strikingly handsome and powerful man with a life splashed across the tabloids, Davison Cabot Berkeley isn't what she expected. He's unlike the other wealthy patrons who dine at Le Bistro. Davison sees more than just a coat-check girl working her way through grad school. And from the moment he looks at her, those deep green eyes ignite a fire inside Allegra she's never felt before. She craves Davison's touch-his possession-endlessly. Even though every fiber of her being is telling her to stay away, that it's best for both of them, she can't. As his passion consumes her, Allegra can no longer deny Davison's hold on her. He'll never let her go. But as much as she wants him, Allegra can't surrender to his love-not until she faces a painful secret from her past that could destroy them both . . .
Release date:
July 1, 2014
Publisher:
Forever Yours
Print pages:
306
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I watch as the last of the patrons don their camel-hair coats and calf-length sable furs. Before they leave, the owner makes sure to shake each of their hands. As they exit, the black velvet curtain that covers the front door swishes like a whisper against the marble floor, shielding the interior of the restaurant from the chilly November air. They shuffle their way out to begin the search for their town cars, a fleet of which stand outside on Broadway, engines idling, waiting to be claimed.
I’m standing inside my work space, which happens to be the coat-check room of Le Bistro, a restaurant that is an institution on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Like Sardi’s in the Theater District, Le Bistro is its equivalent, except it serves the opera buffs, cineastes, and ballet lovers of Lincoln Center. Its owner is Elias Crawford, one of New York City’s most well-known restaurateurs, known for his charm, sophistication, and meticulous attention to detail.
Dressed in my standard uniform of a white long-sleeved blouse with French cuffs, black trousers, and black ballet flats, my dark brown hair done up in its usual chignon, I turn and take in my surroundings. Technically, my work space is a closet, lined with clothing rods for coats and jackets and shelves for handbags and briefcases. Since I began working there, I have checked an eclectic collection of items, from a famous rock star’s red leather jacket pockmarked with cigarette burns to a vintage Louis Vuitton trunk that took up most of the traffic pattern.
Lola, the statuesque hostess, pokes her head in the door. “We’re done, Allegra. You can start closing up.”
I nod. I begin to wrap the plastic check numbers in an elastic band, stowing them into the shoe box that I use as a Lost and Found. I count my tips and tuck them into my purse.
As I take one last survey of the room, I spot two objects on the floor. One is a black-and-white silk scarf, the name “Hermès” imprinted in the lower right-hand corner.
The other is a man’s driving glove, brown lambskin, cashmere-lined, with initials stitched on the inseam—DCB.
I stow both items in my Lost and Found shoe box. Perhaps the owners will collect them in the next few days.
* * *
“Did you hear about Davison’s latest venture? He’s flying to China to check out some new company that’s doing amazing stuff with voice technology.”
“Ha! ‘Voice technology,’ my ass! The only voice he’s concerned about getting away from belongs to that shrew girlfriend of his, Ashton. She’s got a hot body, but she’s a total bitch—at least that’s what I’ve heard.”
That’s what gossip is to me. Hearsay. It’s common for someone to approach me while I’m working, offering me monetary compensation for any kernel of gossip that involves a celebrity. Because of its trendy status and location, Le Bistro attracts everyone from politicians to film stars to opera divas, basically anyone who’s ever appeared in Vanity Fair. I knew since I began working here six months ago that if someone really wanted the truth about a scandal, the people to eavesdrop on were the doctors and lawyers who came into the restaurant. But I treat my place of work as a confessional; whatever I overhear will never be passed on to a third party.
The two men retrieving their coats are discussing the couple whose names and faces were featured almost every day on Page Six—Davison Cabot Berkeley, the Manhattan billionaire and heir to the Berkeley Holdings fortune, and Ashton Lane Canterbury, the heiress of the Canterbury family. Since they’re the “it couple” of Manhattan, their histories are well known thanks to the tabloids and business pages. They’re childhood friends. He has the proper pedigree: age thirty-one, prepped at Exeter, undergrad and MBA from Harvard, while she went to Miss Porter’s and Wellesley.
A match made in WASP heaven.
It’s funny, though, because every time I see their photo in the paper, she always looks much happier than he does, as if he would rather be anyplace else than with her. My life is far removed from the circles they travel in, but seeing such a handsome man so miserable with the woman he supposedly loves, I wonder if he is truly in love with her. I’m twenty-four, a butcher’s daughter, but I don’t envy their social or financial status in society.
I’m putting away the men’s tips in my purse when a sharp knock on the flat ledge of the coat-check room’s half door brings me back to the present moment.
“Excuse me? Are you working or not?”
At the door stands a tall woman with platinum-blonde hair that cascades down the back of her fur coat, a black crocodile Birkin hanging in the crook of her elbow.
“I said, did you happen to find a black-and-white Hermès scarf two nights ago?” her voice shrills above the cacophony of the restaurant. Her thin, oval-shaped face holds an exasperated look, while her blue eyes burn my face like a set of lasers.
“I did. Just a moment, I’ll retrieve it for you.”
As I pull out the Lost and Found box, I hear the woman speaking to her female entourage. “Oh my God, Davis is the biggest nerd. He never wants to go out. All he wants to do is stay home and read books or watch movies. He’s so boring.” She sighs. “But at least we’re going away for the holidays to his family’s chalet in Gstaad. I can’t wait to see his new jet. We have invitations to so many parties when we’re there.”
Suddenly, I know whose scarf I’m holding. It belongs to the shrew herself, Ashton Canterbury.
Ashton’s friends giggle in enchantment over the gilded life she is supposedly leading.
I walk back to Ashton with scarf in hand. I observe her, concluding that the tabloid photos actually make her look better than she does in person.
“Took you long enough,” she huffs. “I hope nothing’s happened to it.”
“It’s in pristine condition, madam. I kept it safe,” I reassure her.
“Yes, well, it looks fine. Let’s go, girls.”
The lack of a gratuity from her does not come as a surprise to me.
* * *
“O mio babbino caro?”
Two days later during the lunch service, I’m bent over picking some dust off the floor humming the aria to myself when a deep male voice interrupts me.
I’m still distracted when I reply to the man. “Yes, how did you know?”
“My family has a private box at the Met.”
When I stand up and turn to the door, I see in front of me what no photo could ever do any justice, now that Davison Cabot Berkeley is standing in front of me. He has to be over six feet tall, with dark brown wavy hair that borders on black. His eyes are deep green with flecks of amber in them. On any other man, his lips would look odd because of their lush shape, but on his chiseled face, they are perfectly suited.
He’s dressed in a navy-blue wool coat, open to reveal underneath it a dark gray pin-striped suit and tie, accentuated by a button-down shirt in a lighter palette. A cashmere scarf the same shade as his coat is tied around his neck.
His eyes meet my dark brown ones, and in a flash, my throat goes dry. Shivers run up and down my arms. My pulse increases because of the way he stares at me. His head rears back slightly, and he takes in a deep breath through his aquiline nose. But it’s the intensity of his eyes that paralyzes me. They sear me, as if they have the ability to read my inner thoughts without having to speak a word.
After a few seconds that seemed more like a full minute, I clear my throat. “You’re very fortunate. May I be of service, sir?”
A small grin appears on his face. “Yes. I seem to have misplaced a glove. By any chance, would you happen to have found it?”
“I believe so. Could you describe it?”
“Brown driving glove, cashmere lined. My initials are on it. DCB. Davison Cabot Berkeley.”
The sound of his voice warms my body, as if it were a cashmere blanket that tightly wraps around me. When he speaks, he speaks deeply, but it’s more like a rumble, as if something is inside him on the verge of erupting. Even though he’s only spoken a few words to me, I have a vision of him commanding others with that voice, and how intimidated I would feel, which is actually beginning to happen to me at that precise moment.
All I can do is nod my head. “Yes. I have it. I’ll be right back.”
As I turn to retrieve the Lost and Found shoe box, he says, “You have a lovely voice.”
Thankfully, I’m looking away from him when he says that because as soon as he does, my face turns hot. “Thank you, but I was just humming, sir.”
“I can still tell, though. Are you a singer?”
My face now cooling down, I finally turn around. “Yes, I am actually. I’m a graduate student of voice at the Gotham Conservatory.”
“Opera?”
“Yes.”
“So I suppose the fact that you work across from one of the most famous opera houses in the world is not a coincidence?” His lips lift in a sly grin.
I laugh slightly from my nerves. “No, it is not.”
He smiles at me. “Umm, may I…” he asks, gesturing to the glove in my hand.
I shake my head in embarrassment. “Oh, I’m sorry. Of course.”
He takes the glove from me, running his fingers over the stitched initials. “Hmm. I wonder…”
“About what, sir?”
“I wonder when my parents named me if their goal was to see how many surnames they could slap on their newborn child.”
I smile, laughing slightly. “I can imagine.”
His head tilts at me curiously as he leans in closer to me. “What’s your name?”
I swallow in my throat as his warm breath caresses my face. “Allegra.”
“Allegra what?”
“Allegra Orsini.”
He pauses for a moment. “That’s a lovely name. Italian?”
“Yes, sir.”
I look into his eyes, which are still boring into mine. I can’t move. Something is…there. Something…powerful. It takes my breath away. We both seem to be stunned into silence.
He pushes back the tail of his coat to retrieve something from his pocket. He pulls out his wallet and shuffles through the bills.
A fifty-dollar bill appears on the flat ledge of the door.
I push the money back to him. “No, that’s not necessary.”
“Please take it. It’s not just for the glove. It’s been a long time since…I just want you to have it.”
“Truly, I can’t accept it. For the same reason.”
He nods in understanding. He puts his hand over mine, the hand that’s trying to return the money to him. He doesn’t move, and neither do I.
Without warning, he begins rubbing his thumb over my hand, slowly. So slowly. My breaths begin to increase. His emerald eyes turn darker, hooded with a look that both scares me and arouses me. The warmth from his touch permeates my skin, setting the rest of me aflame. I can feel myself turning wet at the apex of my thighs. I press my lips together, determined not to break this moment. He is powerful and commanding. I can’t look away. And I don’t want to.
Then he moves in closer to me. His lush mouth opens to say something, his thumb still moving again and again over my hand.
“Do you think I could make you come just by doing this?”
“What?” I manage barely above a whisper.
“Answer the question,” he commands huskily.
Before I can answer him, a cell phone begins to ring inside his coat, which effectively breaks the moment. I step back as he shuts his eyes, emitting a low growl, then pulls out the phone, grimacing when he checks the caller ID. He lets it continue to ring as he shoves it back into his coat.
He pauses a moment, then takes the fifty and returns it to his wallet. Like a magician, he then reveals the glove’s mate from his coat, and I watch him put on both of them.
His hands now fully gloved, he looks at me again, both of his green eyes fixed onto my own. They seem darker, ominous almost.
I swallow. “Have a good evening, sir.”
He leans into my space, mere inches from me. His scent, something laundered with a hint of spice permeates my nose, his hot breath caressing my face once more. “Good night, Allegra.”
Once Davison Cabot Berkeley leaves, shaking Mr. Crawford’s hand on the way out, I step into a corner of the coat-check room, leaning against it in the darkness. I press my head against the wall as I try to catch my breath.
No man has ever affected me like that before, mostly because I would never allow it. I know it was just a moment. That’s what I tell myself. We will never see each other again. And it’s just as well, because I never let in a man far enough to know my deepest secrets.
Chapter Two
When my mother was alive, I loved waking up in the morning to the smells that came from our kitchen. She was an early riser, so she would start cooking and baking just after dawn. On any given day, I detected anything from the thick cheese and robust sauce of pizza margherita to the sweet cream and sugar of cannoli.
“Mia Allegra, taste this.”
My long brown braids bouncing on either side of my head, dressed in my freshly pressed first-grade Catholic school uniform, I came running up to my mother in the kitchen as she held out a mixing spoon of fresh cream.
“What do you think? Too sweet?”
“It’s yummy, Mamma. What are you making?”
“Just a surprise for your father. He’s been working so hard, and I just wanted to bake him a special treat.”
“I hope one day I can be a good cook like you.”
She touched my cheek. “You will be, cara. Someday you will meet the one man who you will want to cook for and he will love you for it.”
After she died when I was five, my grandparents on my mother’s side came over from Italy to help my father take care of me. They also liked to get up early, but all I ever smelled in the morning was the strong aroma of espresso. My father spent as much time as he could with me while he ran his butcher shop downstairs. Once I reached my teenage years, my grandparents returned to Naples, and then it was just Papa and me.
The kitchen in our fourth-floor walk-up has never been the same since.
The morning after my encounter with Davison Berkeley, I’m sitting at the breakfast table eating my usual—a hard-boiled egg, whole wheat toast, and a cappuccino. My father sits next to me, sipping his espresso.
“How is school going, cara?”
“Fine,” I mumble.
“And how was work last night?”
Work…last night.
Do you think I could make you come just by doing this?
I shiver.
Answer the question.
“Allegra, are you listening to me?”
I shake my head to snap myself out of the memory.
“Scusa mi, Papa. I was distracted.”
“Is something troubling you?”
I pat his hand reassuredly. “No, everything is fine. I just have a lot on my mind.”
“Maybe we could do something this weekend. I don’t see you enough.”
My heart starts to break, hearing that from my father. “I would like that very much. We can see if there’s something Italian playing at Film Forum. I can check the listings.”
“That would be very nice.” He smiles at me.
I glance up at the clock on the wall. “Oh God, I have to run!” I push back from the table, grabbing a banana from the fruit bowl. “I can’t be late for class.”
“Will you be home for dinner?” he asks.
“Sì. I’m not working until tomorrow night.”
“Bene. Ti amo, cara.”
“I love you too,” I tell him, leaning down to kiss him on the cheek before I dash out of the kitchen.
* * *
The following night, I’m back at work inside the coat-check room at Le Bistro. It’s a Friday night, so the restaurant is more crowded and hectic. But everything is running smoothly. I’m arranging the tote bags and briefcases on the flat metal shelf that lines the top of the coat racks when I hear a loud voice, akin to scraping one’s nails on a chalkboard, declare:
“You know, you really should have a small bell on the counter here so you can actually know when someone is waiting for you to assist them.”
I grind my teeth together and take a deep breath before I turn around because I know who is at the door.
It’s Ashton Canterbury. With Davison Berkeley standing right next to her.
Shit.
Her eyes are narrowed at me in anger, while he has a look of complete shame on his face, his head shaking in embarrassment.
They’re with another couple; the man is checking his phone, while the woman is smirking at Ashton’s comment to me.
Professional. Be professional.
“Of course, ma’am. That’s a very good idea. May I check your coats?”
“Well, that would be nice, seeing as that is your job,” she tells me, her voice dripping with pure, unequivocal disdain. She looks back at her friend, exchanging a shared look of triumph.
“Ashton…” Davison admonishes her.
“Am I wrong, Davis?” she asks him, almost as if she’s horrified that he would disagree with her.
“Just give her your fucking coat already!”
Along with Ashton’s and the other couple’s, my eyes widen at his outburst, but I’m the only one whose mouth hasn’t dropped. His face is red, which I’m guessing is from both impatience and anger. But why would he be angry?
“Fine,” she huffs as she takes off her floor-length sable fur. “Don’t do anything to it,” she warns me as she hands it over to me.
“Enough, Ashton!” Davison admonishes her again.
He lets the other couple check their coats before him, while he hangs back.
. . .
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